


...mythical places with strange men...

by scrub456



Series: Don't Panic! [2]
Category: Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Bees, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Don't panic, Douglas Adams, Gen, Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy References, John Watson is Arthur Dent, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes and Bees, Towel Day 2018, Towels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 11:57:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14873330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrub456/pseuds/scrub456
Summary: “Your John Watson ismyArthur Dent, and for reasons I just don’t care to explain to you right now, we’re here to collect him and get off this godforsaken rock.”“I don't go to mythical places with strange men.”― Douglas Adams, The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul





	...mythical places with strange men...

**Author's Note:**

> The notes for this installment are at the end. :-)

The honey bees are dying.

At least, that’s what the leading experts are saying. The people who are paid money to spend money knowing these things seem convinced that within Sherlock’s lifetime there will come a day that the world wakes up to no more honey for their breakfast tea and toast.

That bit about the fatal collapse of sustainable ecosystems? Also a bit not good.

Sherlock can imagine no worse fate than a world without bees. A world without the majority of the human population might be the loveliest daydream he’s ever allowed himself to indulge. As long as he selects the remaining population.

He’s decided it’s a mystery he’s going to solve. He doesn’t allow it to interfere with actual casework, of course, but over the past months the more volatile of his experiments have been replaced with stacks and stacks of research. Flight patterns. Jar upon jar of honey from every imaginable place.

No one at Baker Street is complaining about the absence of rotting appendages in the refrigerator, or virulent mold samples in the bathtub. They’re positively giddy for it, all things told.

Good cheer in the absence of his nastier experiments does not, apparently, translate into good will for his long term plans. He has yet to convince Mrs. Hudson that a hive or two -- three, just to be sure -- on the roof would not only aid his research, but prove economical as well. He’s almost got John to agree.

He turns up the volume of the interview he’s watching. The greasy looking young man who looks like he got out of bed and forgot he was going to be on television that day is laughing and rambling on.

“I can say with some assur… Uhm, _we’re_ confident there are a few things that are _not_ killing the bees. GMOs, for one.”

“Just our children,” his mousy female companion mutters. The interviewer laughs too hard at the statement.

The young man continues ticking off his list with his fingers. “Mobile phone signals. Ultraviolet light. Electromagnetic radiation.” He pauses for dramatic effect and glances at his associate. “Or aliens.” They lean in and giggle awkwardly together, as if they’re sharing some hilarious secret. The interviewer is taken aback, but laughs her too loud laugh so that everyone knows she understands the joke too.

The associate starts a passionate tirade about pesticides and pathogens. Sherlock slumps in his chair, mutes the telly, and drops the remote on the floor. Nine year old Rosie stretches like a cat out of John’s armchair to reach for it. “Bees,” she wrinkles her nose and Sherlock sees a ghost from the past.

“They matter.”

“Getting dressed matters too.” She’s ignoring him in favor of something bright and loud and inane, structured for the sub-average pre-teen mentality.

“You’re better than that nonsense.”

“John told you to get the shopping.” Sherlock’s not sure when this rebellious phase started, but at its peak, he’s not sure he would select Rosie Watson as a candidate for his last people on earth. John pretends it doesn’t bother him, his daughter calling him by his name. He doesn't want to stifle her independence. Sherlock has no such qualms.

“Your father loves you, you should show him some respect.”

“Like you?” She does glance at him then. She knows she’s overstepped.

Sherlock reaches across and takes the remote from her, turning back to the interview. She huffs and turns her attention to her mobile.

The greasy one is explaining the problem of colony collapse.

They’re not dying. Sherlock hasn’t found enough conclusive evidence yet, but he thinks it’s something else. The bees are leaving. He knows, given time, he can prove it.

He is startled from the apiary in his mind palace by someone incessantly ringing the doorbell and pounding on the door. Rosie jumps from John’s chair and goes to the window. “A man and a woman,” she glances over her shoulder. “A case?”

“Hmmm. It’s something not as important as the one ringing the doorbell actually believes it to be.” He waves his hand dismissively, and remains slumped in his chair. “Mrs. Hudson will direct them up, and they will leave disappointed within thirty minutes.”

“I’m timing you.” Rosie pulls up the stopwatch on her mobile when they hear the front door open.

From the foyer there are raised, agitated voices, chief among them his still spirited landlady. Two sets of unfamiliar footsteps charge inelegantly up the seventeen stairs to the flat as Mrs. Hudson shouts after them from the ground floor (she has a hip, and refuses to exchange it for the newest polyethylene model).

There is more hysterical pounding at the flat door. Sherlock motions for Rosie to open it.

“I’m a _child,_ ” she does a complicated thing with her mouth, but her eyes shine with excitement, and she looks exactly like her father.

Sherlock is powerless to combat that particular look. He stands with a sigh, ties his robe a bit tighter, mutes the telly, and flings the door open, nearly sending the man on the other side sprawling. He makes no move to help the intruder, but he stands so that he is mostly blocking entry to the flat.

“Arthur?” The other man is panting. Desperate. “Where is he? Where’s Arthur Dent?”

Sherlock doesn’t dignify him with an answer, and instead slams the door. It’s stopped at the last moment by a petite foot blocking its trajectory. She’s slight but sturdy. Her hair and eyes are dark, but there’s something in the set of her face, the way she commands his attention with just a look.

“My father. Where is he?”

“I assure you, there is…” Sherlock isn’t allowed to finish as she shoves past him and stumbles into the room. She turns in a quick circle and starts toward the kitchen, then freezes as she spots Rosie standing by John’s chair.

The room is eerily silent as Rosie does that complicated thing with her mouth, and the tiny fierce woman does the same sort of complicated thing with her mouth, and they stare at each other with wide flashing eyes.

A sense of something _not right_ is building in Sherlock’s chest and his mind is making leaps he’s not ready to accept. He turns to the other man. He’s composed himself, looking effortlessly laid back in an absolutely ridiculous greatcoat with a towel slung over his shoulder. But it’s a facade; Sherlock can see the wild, unrestrained _otherness_ below the surface. It’s inaccessible, and, Sherlock finds, startlingly relatable.

“What is it with you Earth guys and bathrobes? Is it all you, or just Brits?” The other man pulls something that appears to be an electronic device, though not like any Sherlock has ever seen, from the depths of his coat pocket. Sherlock leans closer to get a look, but the other man quickly tilts it away.

Sherlock clears his throat. “The gentleman you’re looking for isn’t…”

“Trust me,” the stranger glances up between Rosie and and his companion. “This is the place.” He smacks the device on his palm and taps at it a few times.

“I don’t know anyone named Arthur.” Sherlock’s sure he does. It’s a very British sort of name. But he’s not about to admit that to this unwanted interloper.

“Maybe not, but,” he smacks the device again and then shows Sherlock a grainy image. “I bet you know him.”

Sherlock does indeed know him.

“Watson, John Hamish,” the stranger reads from his screen. “Moderately dangerous. General practitioner. Former surgeon. Former military. Public record keeper. Personal assistant. Widower. Father.” He waves the device at Sherlock. “Look, you’re mentioned here too. That’s really something. You only make The Guide if you’re _somebody._ Are you somebody, Mr. Holmes?”

“I…”

“Here’s the rub,” the stranger steps right up to Sherlock. “Your John Watson is _my_ Arthur Dent, and for reasons I just don’t care to explain to you right now, we’re here to collect him and get off this godforsaken rock.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to retort, but snaps it shut again. Someone in the room has gone mad, and while it could be him, he doesn’t think it actually is.

“You don’t have an argument to stand on. He was Arthur for longer than he’s been John. There’s an article in here somewhere about that, but let me just tell you, there are codes and intergalactic laws, and you can try, but you won’t win. He’s coming with me.”

The threat wakes him from his thoughts, and Sherlock glares at the stranger. “Who. Are. You?”

“You don’t… He didn’t… Ugh. That is so like him to not even mention his _best friend._ ”

“I beg your pardon?” Squaring his shoulders, Sherlock prepares for battle.

“Ford Prefect,” the other man bows and it’s very much a mockery. “Arthur Dent’s best friend. And that,” he nods to his companion, “Is Random.”

“ _Random_?”

“Random Dent,” Ford nods. “Arthur’s daughter.”

“His…” Sherlock looks back at the young woman and can see it. He sees John as clearly as he sees him in Rosie. His heart stalls for a moment, until he sees Rosie, clutching her mobile in one hand, tears welling in her eyes. In a few long strides he pulls her to him, and wraps her up in his arms protectively. “Get out.”

“Not without Arthur. Not without my father,” Random starts to take a step toward them, but thinks better of it. “I’ve lost him too many times already, I’ll not lose him this time.”

“ _This time._ This time _what_?” Sherlock demands.

“What aren’t you understanding? The Earth was destroyed in another dimension, and I lost track of him. He’s ended up here, and we’ve been searching for him for years.” Ford wraps an arm across Random’s shoulders.

“ _Get. Out._ ” Sherlock snarls as Rosie starts crying in earnest against his chest.

“What the hell is going on up here?” They turn and stare as John drops his work bag just inside the door. It falls open, and Ford laughs so hard he’s doubled over.

“I knew it. I knew you’d remember.” He pulls the towel from John’s bag and waves it in his face.

John snatches the towel away and slowly takes in the room. His gaze lingers on Random, and he makes that complicated face. He turns to face Sherlock and his face crumbles at Rosie’s sobbing.

“John,” Sherlock holds out his hand to him.

“Sherlock, what?” He steps right up to them, and uses the towel to dry Rosie’s tears. John’s eyes stay locked on Sherlock’s. “ _What…_?”

“John, just… Don’t panic, all right? Don’t…”

Ford laughs again. “C’mon, mate. It’s me, it’s Ford.” He steps up close. “C’mon Arthur, you know how this works. Stick around Earth too long and the place goes all to hell. We gotta go while we can. Got a ride waiting and everything.”

“I don’t… I _don’t_ know you,” John shakes his head and backs away. He glances at Random, with her hand clenching at her side and tears ruining her make-up. “I can’t remember you.”

Random sniffs and shakes her head, and reaches for him. “Oh, what have they done?”

“No!” Rosie shouts and launches herself at John.

The backs of his knees hit Sherlock's chair and they both tumble back into it. John sits down hard with his arms full of his weeping daughter. The remote clatters to the floor and the bee interview is still going.

The mousy one is showing a video of bees in their rhythmic dance inside their hive. It's from yesterday.

Ford and Random watch it, transfixed. “Shit,” he looks from Random to John. “We're out of time.”

**Author's Note:**

> So. Bees. Sherlock is fascinated by them, sure, but why bees? In the HHGTTG series, the dolphins try to warn the humans of impending doom. The closer it gets to doomsday, the dolphins all leave. See where this is going? This earth, with our boys, is one in countless others, in different dimensions. In this one, the bees speak. 
> 
> Also, I feel I should note, these stories are set several years after s4, so Mary is dead, and Rosie is real. I don't always write Rosie, but Rosie and Random make for good conflict.
> 
> Random. Arthur didn't know he had a daughter until the end of the series. He made a "donation" at an intergalactic "collection station." I don't want to get too much into it now and spoil things, but Random really is Arthur's daughter.
> 
> If you have questions about why I did something, or what something means, please feel free to ask in the comments. ♡


End file.
